Diary of a Necromancer
by Drow Elf
Summary: This is the story of a necromancer. Not just any necromancer: the most powerful one in centuries, and he's angry. LAST CHAPTER IS UP! THE STORY IS FINISHED! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE READ IT AND REVIEW!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't know what characters I will or will not use in this fanfic, so if you've seen or heard of a person, place, or thing in my writing, I don't own it. If you haven't heard of such a person, place, or thing, I might own it. Read and Review!

_I sit here in my cell, enjoying no sound except the scritching of my quill on parchment. The depth of my own folly has only just hit me. Now, after a century of damning experimentation and plotting, I finally realize my mistake. Only by the mercy of a kindly guard do I have writing material to record my experiences in hope that someday I may be understood, and maybe even pitied, for I am pitiful. I blame these people for neither my imprisonment nor for my inevitable burning come dawn. But I do criticize them for their lack of perception. To them, I am a monster, a freak of nature, or rather, of magic. They perceive me an animal, hungering only for power and death._

_They are wrong._

_My name is Morath: necromancer, dark lord, and human. This is my story…_

Diary of a Necromancer Chapter One A Start 

I was but a boy, eleven, perhaps twelve. Yes, I was twelve years old. I was a very fine-looking boy, if I do say so myself. I had thick, black curls of hair, often falling into my face when I looked down. I had a pale, yet rosy face with full lips, large, blue eyes, and long eyelashes. I was young. I was healthy. I was in an apprenticeship to become a necromancer.

"Concentrate, Morath," rasped my master, Derir, gripping my shoulder tightly.

I nodded, terrified, my eyes never leaving the old, cracked tombstone. "Are you _sure _I'm ready, Master?" I asked, my high, boyish voice squeaking slightly.

"Of course you are, boy. Don't be ridiculous. I summoned my first skeleton when I was _eleven_."

"Couldn't I do a zombie? You said freshly dead corpses where easier to raise."

"Yes I did, because much of their matter still remains in this Plane, and because some remnants of their spirits tend to linger for a while. But you didn't listen to the entire lesson. Zombies are much harder to control because they still have a vague sense of self, and often try to rebel against their masters. For an experienced necromancer, this isn't a problem. However, you, being a complete novice, will likely lose control and I won't have enough time to throw up a protective barrier. Skeletons are generally mindless; you shouldn't have a problem. Now, let us begin. This sort of thing, like I have told you before, is best in the full moon, which is starting to wane."

Slowly, my master worked me through the necessary spells and incantations. I shall not record them here, lest someone wishes to follow my work, which I cannot allow.

Finally, after several minutes of invoking, hand waving, and finger wriggling, I stopped, folded my arms like my master often did, and waited. The spell had left me sick, like I had swallowed a vat of oil and had swum in a pool of slime. I felt dirty, yet exhilarated. Seconds passed uneventfully. My foot began to tap. Perhaps I had done it wrong? My master would not be pleased at my failure. I chanced a glance at his face; it was expressionless. I waited some more. Finally, after several more seconds of tension, I opened my mouth to apologize to Derir. At that moment, there came the muffled sound of splintering wood. After a few moments of listening to the sound of digging, a bony hand thrust itself out of the ground.

"Ha ha!" cried my master, actually clapping his hands. "Bravo, young necromancer. Your first undead raising at twelve! Ha! I couldn't do it until I was fourteen."

"But… you said… what about the skeleton at eleven?" I asked, confused.

"I lied," said Derir simply. "But no matter. You have the makings of a great necromancer, boy. I hope I live to see it."

I looked at the fully visible skeleton I had summoned. It was busily brushing dirt and pieces of its coffin off itself. Seeing me looking, it snapped to attention, awaiting my command.

"You'll do well, boy," said my master, clapping his hand on my shoulder. "Very well." Despite my upset stomach, I grinned a genuine smile.

And so my path to the hells had begun.

It was a start.

Author's note: I thought it was pretty good. I have all sorts of ideas for his exploits, but I'm not sure if I should take the time to write them. Review and encourage me!


	2. Chapter Two: Burning Gold

_It is tradition to start with one's birth when writing one's life story. I have had two births. My second and more important birth was the night I became a necromancer, which I have just described to you. My first birth occurred on a chilly winter morning in Waterdeep, City of Splendors. My biological parents were wealthy merchants, dealing with only the richest of lords and pashas. My mother dealt with sweet-smelling perfumes and expensive jewelry. My father's trade and passion was books, which he referred to as "black gold between pages."_

_I hated them both._

_All scholastic achievements went unnoticed, so long as they were acceptable. Desperate for some form of attention, I once purposely botched an assignment. The sheer brutality of the whipping administered by my father's manservant was not worth the attention I received._

_For seven years I was virtually ignored by my parents._

_Perhaps this is why I hardly blinked when they met their deaths on that cold spring evening…_

Chapter Two Burning Gold 

The floor was slick with blood. Servants were sprawled everywhere in their own personal crimson pools. My mother was already dead, drowned in her own lifeblood. I suppose one could call it deathblood now.

We were in our library, my father and I, the only ones left. I cowered behind my father, who thrust his arms wide to protect…his books.

"Stop it! Don't!" my father cried pleadingly.

A tall figure, cloaked in darkness, hidden behind a hideous skull-like mask, tossed a small ball of flame from palm to palm like a child would a pebble.

"You wish to escape death?" rasped the dark wizard.

"I know that I am going to die," said my father resolutely. "And also my son; however, you need not burn the books. Leave the books be! They contain history, valuable information, and emotion. They are like gold. There are no other copies left in all of Faerun."

"You would give your life and the life of your son for these books, these creations of man, made of ink and paper?" asked the wizard.

My father paled; "I would," he said.

The wizard stretched out a thin, sickly hand. "Only the life of your son is required. Give me your son, and your books will be spared."

My father whirled around without hesitation. "Come Morath. Let go!"

I screamed and bit his hand. He slapped me. I seized his robes and held on with a death grip. He yanked me off and hurled me at the wizard.

"Take the brat," said my father, sucking his injured hand. "Take him and get out of my house."

The wizard seemed shocked. Well, as shocked as anyone could seem while wearing a mask. "I did not think that you would actually do it. How heartless. I like that. Too bad you have to die."

"What?" my father said sharply.

In answer, a skeleton leapt out of nowhere and literally tore my father limb from limb. I batted an eye, but I think that was because of dust and a bit of my father's blood hitting my face.

"My name is Derir," said the wizard. "I am a necromancer of no small renown. I have been looking for a young boy with your spirit. How old are you?"

I held up seven fingers.

"Perfect. You will come with me. I will be your master from this day forth. Do you understand me?"

I nodded.

"Good, now come."

I followed.

As we left the house, Derir tossed the fireball in, almost as an afterthought. I smiled as I thought of my father's remains burning along with his gold.

A/N: It's a little darker than last time. I wanted to make it clear that Derir was not a "nice" person. After all, he is a necromancer. But I want to make it clear in future chapters that the necromancers are people, with feelings and dreams like everyone else. R&R!


	3. Chapter 3

_Being the son of a rich merchant, I had encountered many different kinds of people by the time my seventh birthday rolled around. However, of all the people I came across, gypsies, lords, ladies, and even an occasional barbarian, no one impacted my early years more than my master, Derir…_

Chapter Three

A Day in the Life of a Necromancer

Zombies wandered through the halls. A foul stench permeated the air. Mold and cobwebs were everywhere.

This was my home.

I slept on a thin mat in the southeast corner of my master's mansion. Cold from the stone floor seeped through my tiny mattress, and icy tendrils of air always discovered new holes in my blanket.

I grew used to it. For one who lives in a house of death, cold is a familiar ally, not the usual harsh foe.

I think now that the cold must have become a part of my very soul.

It was not uncommon for me to awake with a risen corpse staring listlessly down at me. For the first few months of my apprenticeship, this was enough to send me screaming down the passageways in desperate search of my master. After a year, though, I would merely push them away irritably.

I am not and never have been a morning person. Though the zombies never harmed me, I would always have to sweep my room clean of dead skin flakes and small pieces of brittle bone.

My master ignored all my pleas for a door lock.

Usually after awakening and bathing, I would head to the kitchens to cook Derir's breakfast. Skeletons are fairly good housekeepers (except for when they bump into something and a piece of them is jarred off) but if you asked one to cook you something, you were asking for major trouble. I am not sure what imbecile would actually try to make a dead person cook, but I am fairly certain that such a thing has been attempted. We necromancers are not _all_ geniuses, you know.

After cooking breakfast, I would make my way to Derir's laboratory, usually having to shove a couple of undeads out of the way. They never did catch on that they were supposed to _move_ when they saw me coming.

Mindless idiots.

I would rap a secret code on the door, signaling that it was indeed I with breakfast. If my master were not too busy, he would immediately allow me inside. If he were on the verge of a dangerous, possibly explosive experiment, I would have to wait outside and try unsuccessfully to make conversation with passing skeletons.

As I got older, I was allowed in more often.

If my master did not wish me to watch him work, I spent the rest of the morning aiding the skeletons in tidying the mansion, which is not as hard as it sounds since my master hardly ever left his laboratory.

The afternoons were devoted to my studies.

I loved afternoons.

For the first five years of my apprenticeship, I usually just read books. Big books, small books, wide books, thin books, I read them all. The only thing they had in common was the universal black cover on all of them.

I began to loathe black.

I read books on magic, magical theory, death, afterlife, and of course, necromancy.

The things I could have told you at the age of nine years would have chilled a veteran soldier.

Soon after my twelfth birthday, however, I summoned my first undead skeleton, officially making me a necromancer, albeit an inexperienced and hesitant one. I adopted that skeleton as my familiar, a permanent undead servant, whom I whimsically named "Skully."

Throughout my adolescence, my master restrained me to summoning skeletons, zombies, and various minor spirits. Not only that, but he also taught me the art of wizardry, for only a foolish necromancer relies on his undead servants alone.

I was proficient. No, I was a prodigy.

I learned quickly. More than quickly, I learned at an extraordinary rate. On the rare occasions my master slept, I sneaked into his library and gorged myself on books he had deemed too advanced for me. I became learned well beyond by years.

Derir had proclaimed me exceptional, but even he underestimated me. I had the makings of the greatest necromancer of all time.

And what's more, I was happy. I was content. My life was moving steadily forward with no complications in sight.

But, of course, Fate had different plans.

Author's Note: Yes, I know. It's getting a little slow, but I've gotta set everything up, so bear with me. I tried throwing in a bit of humor to liven things up, but it came out rather lame. In the next chapter, or maybe the one after it, there should be some action getting started. Keep reading to see how the prodigious student faces up against his master, and his own tortured heart.

PS _Xal dos zexen'uma wun l' elamshinae d' Lloth!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Countless songs and ballads have been composed lamenting the mistakes made during the madness of youth. Every adolescent, certain in his youthful arrogance that he knows all there is to know, has made some rash decision, and was forced to pay the consequences. Sometimes those consequences are minor, resulting only in the embarrassment of the perpetrator. Others, however, produce drastic results that throw entire realms into chaos._

_My mistake was among the latter…_

Chapter Four

Evil's Love

Her name was Vivian. Vivian was my downfall, or uprising, however the historians choose to put it. She was the young daughter of a rich Waterdhavian noble, much like I was in my first life.

I was young, probably early twenties. My master had sent me to Waterdeep to sell various enchanted (or cursed) trinkets: rings, amulets, and the like. This was our income, vital to buy spellbooks, food, and other necessities.

I caught sight of her by chance, just happening to see her through her window. She was leaning on the sill; her angular chin cupped in her right hand, looking absently down at the bustling marketplace.

I stood there for several seconds, awestruck. I think that a pickpocket may have lifted one of my amulets without me noticing. I grabbed a passing merchant, "Who is _that_?" I demanded, pointing unabashedly. The merchant held out his hand. I viciously pushed a gold piece into it.

"That there is Vivian Hyburn, daughter of old Danal Hyburn," said the merchant, biting the coin to ensure its authenticity. "She's one of the richest young ladies in this city, way over _your_ head."

I shoved him away. "I must speak to her," I muttered to myself. I spent several minutes trying to catch her eye, behaving foolish even to the point of waving at her. She did not notice. Sighing with resignation, I strode over to her front gate. Two guards blocked my way.

"I am here to see Lady Vivian," I announced. "I am sure she will receive me."

The guards stared at me incredulously. "Your invitation, sir?" asked the elder, holding out his hand.

I faltered. "I, uh, don't have one," I said rather lamely.

Two pairs of eyebrows rose. "Then I'm afraid I can't permit you," said the guard, none too apologetically.

"Then I insist you announce me," I demanded.

The guard took in my black clothes, dark hair, and unhealthy countenance, "No," he said firmly.

I decided that I had negotiated enough. I fluttered a hand before their eyes and whispered an arcane word. Both their eyes slid out of focus, and they slumped where they stood. A small snore escaped one's lips.

"Good night," I said amiably, and used another small spell to unlock the gate and push through to find the beautiful flower inside.

Never in my memory can I conjure an image quite as beautiful as the garden/lawn surrounding her family's estate. Flowers were everywhere, seemingly random, but very artistically done when inspected closely. Hedges were trimmed to depict extraordinarily lifelike heroes frozen in some heroic deed or another. Sunlight appeared to stream happily and unceasingly onto the house, but it was probably my imagination. There must have been at least two dozen caretakers perpetually tending to the vegetation. They eyed me warily, but went about their business as if I did not exist, confident any uninvited intruders would be dealt with at the gate.

It is incredible to me that, in a world where magic runs amok and some monsters could change appearances at will, most people invariably believe what they want to believe, so long as their limited visual perception contributes no obvious evidence to the contrary.

I passed unhindered through the doorway of her mansion.

Finally, as I entered the main hall, I was confronted. "I am sorry, sir," said a high-ranking servant apologetically, "I am afraid you were not announced, so if you would be so kind as to inform me of your business here?"

"I am here to see Lady Vivian," I said, putting on a mask of barely discernible irritation, as if miffed at the inconvenience. "You can escort me to her quarters, I presume."

"Lady Vivian?" the servant was confused. "I do not remember Lady Vivian having any appointments this day. Are you sure you have the correct date?"

I feigned outrage. "This is unacceptable!" I bellowed. "First, your guards delay me at your gate, then I am left alone to wander through your gardens unannounced, and now here I am, totally forgotten by the lady's staff! Fine, it is obvious my _large_ amount of gold would be better spent elsewhere."

"No! I mean, please wait sir," begged the servant, clearly distressed. "There has been some large error made, and make no mistake, heads _will_ roll for it. I will announce your presence to the lady immediately. In the meantime, please have a seat; refreshments will be brought to you shortly."

"No need," I said pleasantly, having gotten my way. "You may escort me to the lady's chambers directly, and I shall conduct my business there."

"My lord, that would be most improper. May I suggest—" He quailed under my glare. "Right this way, my lord."

He led me up several flights of stairs, often stopping at various portraits, spending agonizingly long moments explaining the history and brilliance of each and every one. I toyed with the idea of summoning Skully to rip him apart, but figured this would not appear dashing to fair Vivian.

At long last, he finally showed me to a large, double-door entrance. "She rests inside," he murmured, rapping on the door smartly.

A voice likening to the tinkling of fine bells drifted from within, "Who calls?"

"A mysterious visitor, milady," said the servant. "I tried to turn him away, but he was adamant in his need to see you. Urgent business, apparently."

A pause "Let him in."

The servant frowned, but opened the doors to admit me.

Inside was the radiant beauty, even more stunning up close. "You may go, Hasufel," she said sweetly. "I shall take it from here."

"Milady," intoned Hasufel, bowing his way out the door, closing them.

The lady regarded me with piercing eyes. "You do not have the looks of a rich man, nor of the respectful sort. What business do you have with me?"

"Milady," I said, bowing, "in truth, I only wished to gaze upon your beauty from a distance less than that of the streets. I tried to signal you from yonder market, yet you heeded me not."

She laughed sweetly. "So _you_ were the young fool waving at me. My, my, my, you _are_ persistent."

"Normally I am not so bold, yet your beauty encouraged me. I would so like to get to know you." I couldn't believe the words coming out of my mouth; I could not stop them, however.

Instead of calling the house guards like any sane lady should, she smiled and touched my face with her creamy, perfumed hand.

"I think that you and I could learn from each other," she said.

A/N: Sorry, no action yet. I have this tremendous writer's block, yet I press on. Next chapter will have blood, promise. Please review. I feel as if no one likes my stuff because nobody reviews!


	5. Chapter 5

_It is by the wicked designs of Fate, it seems, that humans were meant to fall in love. My master warned me numerous times of that most wretched evil called love, but I heeded him not. If I had listened, then perhaps all that has come about would have been avoided. I would not have had to suffer the agony of grief-turned-fury. Lives would have been saved. Souls would have endured._

_Hate is the child of Love. Love, the so-called savior of humankind, will likely be its downfall._

_As it was mine…_

**Chapter Five**

_Love's Price_

Vivian and I courted for several weeks; I still remember that as the happiest time of my life. We went everywhere together. With every chance I got, I would teleport to Waterdeep, my once loathed home.

I saw it not as the hateful cesspool of human greed and avarice, but as a place of beauty. The gardens, the majestic structures, even the graveyard (to Vivian's incredulity,) held a certain fascination to me: the black rat that dwelled in a house of death.

Vivian was singularly astonished at my openmouthed wonder of the beauty that she lived amidst day after day. Her laughter, tinkling like the bells of Life, always signaled a new adventure, a new paradise in waiting.

We drifted along the coast in pleasure boats and dined in the finest eateries; my taste buds, used to flavorless, plain foods usually distributed at Derir's manor, were nearly overwhelmed with the sudden outburst of flavor the rich enjoyed.

In Vivian's presence, I found contentment. With her, I found love.

By all the gods, I wish it had not been so. Better to live without love than to live with it only to watch it slip from your grasp.

Our outings went on for weeks. Unfortunately, my continued absences did not escape the notice of Derir.

"You're late," he stated, not looking up from his cauldron. "Again."

"Sorry, Master," I apologized. "The merchants would not let me go so easily, so great is your craft."

Derir thrust out his hand; the pouch on my belt snapped free and flew to join my master's awaiting grasp. The fingers worked furiously, getting a general feel of the amount of coins in the bag.

"And yet sales are down lower than ever, Morath," he rasped. "The evidence is contrary to your words. Explain."

I felt like hurling a spell of silence at him. So confident was I that my power rivaled his, but deep down I knew I was not ready to take on Derir. In addition, deep respect for the experienced necromancer kept my magic at bay.

"I have lowered our prices," I lied. "Sales will dip for a while, but soon word will spread, and they will rise."

For the first time that day, Derir lifted his gaze to compete with mine. "I am watching you closely from now on, Morath," he whispered, clearly audible above the bubbling potion he stirred with his left hand. "Do not disappoint me."

"Never," I said flippantly, and took my leave.

I could feel Derir's gaze boring a whole in the back of my skull as I left.

I shuddered.

I dared not visit Vivian the next day, nor the day after that or even the day after that. Finally, when I was certain Derir was immersed in some foul experiment and sure not to surface for many hours, I discreetly teleported to my familiar landing spot on the outskirts of Waterdeep.

Minutes later I was reunited with my love.

"Were have you been?" she demanded.

"Sorry, Dear. I was busy."

"Selling foul artifacts?"

I froze. Vivian knew nothing about my being a necromancer. Something inside had told me that she would not be too enchanted with that notion. I didn't know why. Perhaps women thought skeletons were smelly (which they certainly were, but they had nothing on zombies,) but I had learned quickly that necromancy was not the thing to flash around the ladies.

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked innocently after a moment's hesitation, an instant too long.

"I had you followed," she stated with all the haughtiness of a Waterdhavian lord's rich daughter.

I sighed. "A man's got to make a living. I sell mildly enchanted items to the common folk. It's a modest income, but it puts bread on the table."

"_Enchanted_, you say?" She placed her hands on her hips, a tint of accusation creeping into her voice.

Uh oh.

"Um, yes."

"One of my men put on a ring they bought from you a few days ago."

I winced. I remembered the ring she was talking about.

"His hand was completely incinerated by the time we put the fire out."

Yep, that was the one. "Um, I'm sure there was some sort of caution label attached."

"No, there wasn't."

"How was I supposed to know it was cursed!?"

"You sold it!"

"So?"

"So?" she hissed. "So? You ought to know what it is you're selling. In fact, I'm sure you do."

"So I sold it," I said; I was starting to get angry now. "I didn't know what it did. My master makes the stuff and I sell it."

"Your _master_?" she said, surprised. I had never mentioned Derir to her. "I didn't know you _had_ a master."

"Well, I do," I huffed. "Not all of us can be lords as rich as dragons."

She narrowed her eyes dangerously. "Where do you live, Morath?" she wanted to know. "From whence do you so strangely appear? Whom do you serve? Just _who are you_?"

I rocked back on my heels. Should I tell her about my knowledge of the Dark Art? _Could_ I tell her about my necromanship? I had to try, or I would lose her. This I knew.

I held out my hand. "Come with me."

She looked at it apprehensively. Her trust in me was shaken, I realized.

"No harm shall come to you, this I swear," I vowed, placing my hand over my heart in the manner of fealty.

After a moment's hesitation, she slowly slid her hand into mine. I hugged her close.

"Close your eyes," I suggested. She certainly would not appreciate the place we had to traverse in our teleportation. She squeezed them shut.

I worked my fingers through the motions and spoke the command word. Faerûn swirled around us in a blurred maelstrom of color and sound. Then it was gone; we had entered the underworld.

"Don't look," I ordered, kicking away a skeletal hand reaching out of the ground for my ankle. The barren wasteland of the dead suddenly rushed by me, ushering us to its living (if you could call it that) counterpart, Derir's mansion.

With an odd sucking sensation, we were through, standing on my raggedy blanket in my room, in exactly the same instant we had departed from Waterdeep. The old place had undergone some changes since I was twelve. Magical knickknacks littered the floor. Pouches filled with volatile powder were sprawled haphazardly on my dresser. A cracked full-view mirror, looking a little worse for the wear, dominated a wall, the shadowy image of the realm of death flickering inside it.

I inhaled a deep breath of foul, stale air. It was always good to return home.

Vivian had opened her eyes, but still had not let go. "Where are we?" she whispered in terror.

I looked down at her, puzzled. Teleportation, especially my form of it, could be unsettling, but the startling effects soon wore off.

"This is my room."

"Your room?" She disentangled herself from my grasp and inspected some of my possessions. "Morath, this is the home of some extraordinarily evil mage!"

I shifted uneasily. "Well, I don't know if I'm _that_ evil, but I'm certainly no paladin like Piergeiron."

She looked at me fearfully. "Morath, this had better not be a joke."

I frowned. "Joke? No, I am me. I am a necromancer."

She gasped and fell back. "A necromancer!"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Morath, so help me if you are lying…."

"No, really. Here, look" With that, I opened my closet. There was Skully, sitting dispassionately on a three-legged stool, staring at his pointy toes, which he did quite often for some unfathomable reason.

Vivian approached tremulously, apparently she was not certain whether the skeleton was real or not.

"He can move," I said helpfully. "Skully, say hello to my friend, Lady Vivian Hyburn."

With a start, Skully looked up and offered a jaunty wave at the suddenly horrified Vivian.

She shrieked surprisingly loudly, leaping away across the room in an effort to put as much distance as possible between her and the animated skeleton.

A sudden intrusion spiked through my mind. I winced as I realized who it was. _Morath?_

_Yes, Master? _I mentally replied as innocently as possible.

_What's going on? Who screamed?_

_Sorry, Master. That was me. I, um, saw a rat and it startled me._

I could almost make out the doubt in the mental connection. _You were scared by a rat?_

A hesitation. _Yes._

_I'm coming up._

_No! Master, there is no need!_ But it was too late; he had severed the connection.

I started for Vivian. "We have to leave. Now."

She screamed and ran from me. "To think that I trusted you! A necromancer, hah! What a fool I was. So now, do you plan to kill me? Chop me up into little pieces for a spell? Why are you so quiet? Do you deny all affection you might have felt for me now that the time has come?"

All the while she led me in a merry chase around the room. I desperately tried to catch her to teleport her back to Waterdeep, but she evaded my grasp.

"I was going to tell you I loved you, Morath! Does that not mean anything to you?"

That stopped me cold. "Of course I love you," I said. "I've never loved anyone more."

"Tricks! Lies! All this time you have lied to me! I hate you. I _hate_ you!"

Each word was a hammer blow to my ears, but I had to here them.

The sound of my master's footsteps echoed down the hallway. The knob to the door turned. I spun around and cast a spell of closing on the door, thinking to keep Derir out for at least a while.

It was no use. Derir, possessing more magic than I ever suspected, blew open the door with a mighty spell, and charged in.

Vivian unleashed a bloodcurdling scream. I didn't know why, until I noticed how Derir would look in her eyes. For the first time, I truly noticed his mottled, deathlike skin, stretched over his body like pale parchment. His hands were long and grasping. His head resembled a skull. Black robes hung limply about him. His wispy hair wafted in a nonexistent breeze.

His eyes, oh his deep, crimson eyes burned into my green one's like the hells' fires.

For the first time in years, I truly feared my master.

"You disobeyed my greatest rule," accused Derir terribly. "You told someone our secret and brought her here. Traitor. She must die. You shall be dealt with later."

I cared not what Derir did to me, but I could not allow any harm to come to Vivian, my fair Vivian, who loved me no more.

Quickly, I seized one of the pouches lying on the dresser and thrust my hand into the bag pulling out a handful of powder. I threw it on Vivian and snapped the command word, teleporting her back to Waterdeep.

"Now she is beyond your grasp," I challenged.

His red eyes widened. "You fool!" he screeched. "You complete and utter fool! Where have you sent her? Where…Have…You…Sent…Her!" He punctuated each word with a stunning slap across the face.

I held my hand my cheek and gasped, "Waterdeep."

He howled at the ceiling and slugged me in the stomach, in the face, in the kidney, and anywhere else he could reach. I tried to fend him off, but it was like deterring a troll.

"Waterdeep!" he howled. "Waterdeep! She's a noble! Possibly the daughter of one of the Masked Lords!"

"So?" I sputtered rebelliously, not able to catch the resulting right hook in the face.

"So? So, there are wizards in Waterdeep! Hundreds of them! And there she is with a rich father just waiting to hand a sack of gold to the wizard who brings him the evil necromancer's head!"

He delivered one last, vicious kick to the groin, doubling me over. "That's for your lighthearted stupidity, my young apprentice," he growled. "Pack your things as quickly as possible. We must me gone before the end of the hour."

I entertained delicious fantasies of subjugating Derir to several of the torture maneuvers he had taught me over the years (which were quite a few, I assure you,) but I knew he spoke the truth. I had erred, and badly. Absolutely Vivian and her father would run to wizardly friends. They could trace the teleportation magic back to the manor. Blackstaff might even be interested enough to take part. Derir and I were in grave danger.

The next few minutes were a mad rush of packing things absolutely necessary, and swiftly saying goodbye to things that were not.

I suggested leaving immediately, cutting our losses and teleporting away before any enemies arrived. Derir refused, saying that he had not spent so many years gathering treasures that he would let them go at the first sight of trouble. I could have disappeared without him, but I felt honor-bound to stand by the man that I had so miserably failed.

We were about halfway finished when I magically felt the first alien presence on Derir's property. I glanced at my master; he nodded; he felt it too.

I looked out a window, seeing a magical haze appearing in the air. There would be no teleporting away.

We had to stand and fight.

Derir straightened, rubbing his hands quickly together in anticipation. "Remember all I have taught you, Morath," he whispered.

I nodded, and reached out mentally to the dead buried randomly throughout my master's land. _Rise_.

A few seconds passed, then a scream pierced the air. Derir nodded his approval at me, and we rushed to the windows to survey the gruesome spectacle.

Wizards were desperately blasting away at advancing undead, not able to keep all of them off at once. I saw on mage go down when a mottled hand burst out of the ground below him, tripping him up. A dozen zombies were on him. When they left, there was naught but a bloody smear on the ground.

Derir's face was screwed up in concentration, dictating the undead battling below. I focused on raising more allies. They did not even have to be human. Long dead bears exploded roaring out of the ground, catching terrified wizards by surprise. Hundreds of decaying squirrels completely covered a mage, little teeth quickly gnawing through skin and tissue, eventually even through bone.

The screams were unlike anything I had ever heard.

I smiled at my master. We were winning.

Unfortunately, one of the wizards spotted us standing at the window. An enormous fireball slammed into the side of the manor, all the windows shattered, spraying me with broken glass that cut mercilessly. I found myself on my back.

I looked over to Derir and gasped. The edge of the fireball had found its way through his window and had burned off half his face. He snarled and leapt up; I was surprised that he was still alive.

Shouting curses (very imaginative ones at that,) threats, and challenges, Derir stumbled to the window, unleashing a flurry of lightning bolts, fireball, and sprays of acidic poison. He took down half a dozen wizards in his rage.

A lightning bolt blasted through the broken window and caught Derir square in the chest, burning a fist-sized whole on the right side.

He crashed into a sturdy wall beside me and looked into my eyes, his dimming as the life receded from them. "Run," he whispered, somehow finding the strength to give me a weak shove to help me along.

"Run."

I cried out in shock and pain, but obeyed his last order to me immediately.

I ran.

A loud crashing sound greeted my ears as I sprinted toward the main hall. I spun around the corner and saw wizards pouring through the decimated oak doors. With a wail, I launched a fireball into midst of them and dashed the other way.

A huge wizard materialized in front of me and blasted me backward with a bolt of pure energy. He leaned over me, his palm glowing dangerously. "Time to die, death-wizard."

Two bony hands grabbed his head from behind and ripped it from his shoulders. A fascinating amount of blood spurted all over me, blinding my sight. I wiped my eyes with a patch of astonishingly clean cloak and saw Skully standing before me, grinning (naturally,) seemingly pleased with himself.

"Skully!" I gasped.

I don't know how he accomplished it without lips, but his smile widened.

"I don't think I can stand," I informed him.

With a little nod, Skully lifted me easily in his arms and barreled through the walls, causing numerous splinters to find new homes in my skin. Eventually we found our way outside. Skully kept running until we reached a clearing some miles away. I could still see the burning top of Derir's manor.

It crumbled and fell before my eyes.

I howled to the stars.

**Author's Note: Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. I've been busy with other things. Iceheart Firesoul, thanks. This is the turning point of my story. Morath is betrayed by his love and loses his master in the process. From now on, Morath is going to be bad. So very, very bad...**


	6. Chapter 6

_It is the saddest day in my memory. I had lost my love. I had lost my master. I had lost my soul. Much of my magic and its components were lost along with the mansion. It would take years to build my strength back to its lost glory, and still more years to achieve the level of mastery I aspired to._

_But achieve it I would. The world would tremble at the name of Morath, Dark Lord of the Dead._

Chapter Six

Resolve

The leafy canopy of the sickly forest overhead did little to halt the advance of the oppressing torrent of rain. I sat cross-legged in a mud puddle, drenched, staring absently at nothing.

Skully discovered a crisp, dead leaf about two inches long and an inch wide and balefully held it over his head as a makeshift umbrella.

We stared at each other. We sat there and stared at each other for hours; long after poor Skully's pathetic umbrella had been shredded beyond recognition by the marauding raindrops. My tears were hidden by the downpour.

"It was my fault, Skully," I croaked at long last. Skully just stared at me blankly, then shrugged his bony shoulders as if it didn't matter. "He's dead because of me!" I shouted, irrationally enraged by his apathy. Skully gestured to his animated bones, as if pointing out the obvious. "Not dead like you," I snarled. "I can't bring him back. Those evil wizards will make sure of that." Skully had no answer; he brought the ruined leaf down to regard it dispassionately, then carefully slid it into a hairline fracture running down his femur, making sure it would not slip out. Skully did the strangest things sometimes.

"I'm hungry," I said a bit later. I hadn't eaten since the morning before. "Go find something that I can eat. Remember that I _cannot_ eat tree bark. If you forget again, I shall punish you." Skully scampered off into the underbrush. In his haste, he tripped over a half-hidden root. He sprawled face first into the muck, his right arm clipping a tree with a resounding crack. The deteriorating appendage snapped off. Wordlessly (of course) he picked up his arm and brought it to me for reattachment. I sighed and placed the arm on the socket and prepared the necessary spell.

Then, in a moment of anger, I hurled it away into the forest, too dispirited to bother with it. Skully stood there a moment, then darted to the forest and returned presently, dragging his arm behind him, creating a rut in the mud. He handed it back to me. I tossed it aside again. He picked it up and brought it back.

"Stupid skeleton," I muttered. "Can't you see I'm busy wallowing in my grief?" I threw the arm away, this time using magic to sweep it miles away. Without hesitation, Skully gave pursuit.

I sat alone for hours, listening to the pitter-patter of the raindrops. My wet hair was plastered to my skin. Finally, Skully returned, and dropped his arm at my feet and waited. Slowly I picked it up. I looked at him and said, "Fetch," and tossed it away. Immediately he bounded after it. Seconds later, he was back, dropping it in my lap.

We spent the rest of the afternoon that way, playing fetch with Skully's dismembered arm. I would throw it as far as I could, often concealing it under piles of leaves, or rendering it invisible with my magic.

He found it every time. I wondered how he could accomplish such feats without eyeballs. Wizards of middling power would have been hard-pressed to discover it under the layers of concealing enchantments I laid upon it. Perhaps the dead were connected to themselves in ways unknown by the living. It would make a fascinating research paper.

Finally, the sun set. Darkness is no hindrance to me, but I called the game to a halt out of habit, and soon had a merry fire going. One would think that I would have trouble lighting the completely drenched firewood. Magic is so useful; it's like money, only better.

After reattaching Skully's arm, I sent him to fetch supper. After a few minutes, he came strolling back with a bear three times his size slung over his shoulder. I had never tasted bear before, but I feasted that night.

I dried a space on the ground with my power and stretched out to rest. A break appeared in the clouds, allowing me a fine view of the stars. I began to realize that all was not lost. All my spell components had been destroyed, and my mentor had departed from this world for good. However, here I was, a young man by any reckoning, bursting at the seams with power. It would not be so difficult to regain my former strength. There were other necromancers dotting the countryside. We wizards of the dead are, as a rule, a reclusive lot, but I had a few ideas on how to contact them.

One way or another, I would have my revenge. I had tried my hand at being decent, at being kind, and I had been spurned, my life all but destroyed. I had, through great personal torment, discovered an inconvenient truth: There was no good in the world. There was evil that played itself out in the open, and there was an even greater evil that subtly ruined lives under the guise of "civilization." The two evils were in constant struggle. The world cheered on the side of "Good." However, there was no "Good." There was only power, and those who would openly kill for it, or quietly slip a knife in the back.

I would be no nightly assassin. I would regain my strength, and I would rain down my power on those vile pretenders. They would scream, and I would laugh, for they would deserve whatever pain wrought upon them.

I turned to Skully, "Are you ready to rip off more heads in the name of justice?" I asked.

Skully just grinned, as always.

**Author's Note: This is another turning point. Morath has now justified his actions, past and future. There is no greater danger than Evil that acts in the name of Good. Is Morath evil? I think not, but he may be. I am just the author. The question of his allegiance is entirely up to you.**


	7. Chapter 7

_I had, more or less, sealed my fate that night after the destruction of all my master's works and the loss of my love. I concluded that the world was inherently evil, and although I could never gain enough strength to bring the world to its knees, I could, at least, become powerful enough to exact my revenge._

_Time passed. I sought out fellow necromancers. It was difficult, at first, but I persevered. I would take on a new master, learn all he knew, and then kill him. I would suffer no rival. A succession of masters met this fate. I was no longer so foolish as to grow attached to my mentors, and suffered no heartache at their passing. My life was nothing but the dark hole of yearning for vengeance. Soon, my reputation spread, and necromancers would shun me away from their secret dwellings, often violently. It mattered not; I was already the most powerful necromancer for many hundreds of leagues around. None could contest my power._

_Years passed, more so for me than the rest of the world. I spent much of my time in the underworld, where time is not relative to the world of the living. I delved into the secrets of the Dead. I spent centuries in the underworld, but it counted as only a few years in Faerûn. When I emerged from the Land of the Dead, I was more formidable than any necromancer I had ever heard of, and I was totally unrecognizable from the pale lad I had one been._

_I was Morath, known to some as the Mentorbane, and I was still as angry over my loss as the day it had occurred. The world trembled at my name, and I laughed in its face._

Chapter Seven

Dark Alliance

I swept regally into the room, my flowing black cloak swirling behind me (I still loathed black, but I came to recognize it as a symbol of terror and domination, which I respected mightily.) Four necromancers marched in behind me, all very dark, all very esoteric, and all so very pathetic.

A horrible old hag looked up from the table, at which she was sitting, and screeched a bloodcurdling cry. My fellow necromancers fell to their knees, clawing at their ears while screaming in pain. The hag's keening dragged on, glass windows shattering, and drinking glasses disintegrating. Blood began to seep from the ears and out between the necromancers' fingers. I smiled, unaffected, and poured some chilled wine into a wooden goblet.

The lesser death wizards were writhing on the ground, their screams drowned out by the hag's. I sipped my wine delicately.

The hag's excruciating cry was suddenly cut off, and she exploded into a fit of coughing and gagging.

"Something wrong, Amelia?" I asked pleasantly.

She put a hand to her foul throat. "I think I swallowed a bug," she wheezed. I conjured a glass of cold water and handed it to her. She gulped it down greedily.

"Lord Morath, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Renthol, the greatest of the lesser necromancers that had followed me in. "You invite us freely into your home with talk of friendship, and the moment we step in you set a banshee on us!"

"My sincerest apologies," I said, raising him and the other three to their feet with a sweep of my hand. "I had forgotten about Amelia. She tidies up my home when I'm busy, and she is also kind enough to sing me a lullaby from time to time if I have trouble sleeping."

Astonishment was plastered on the other men's faces. None had ever heard of a wizard so powerful that even a banshee's keen did not harm him. I planned to show them a great many more things they had never imagined.

"Well," stammered Renthol uncertainly, "it would be more pleasant for all of us if you would take her into consideration next time."

"Absolutely," I assured him. "Now, you must be famished from your journey. May I offer refreshments?" The others murmured their assent. I snapped my fingers, and a dozen skeletons, specially cleaned and spelled to reduce (but not completely eradicate, never that) the smell of dead, filed into the room. I snapped my fingers again, this time whispering an arcane word. A great oak table appeared in the middle of the room, complete with chairs and china. Silver platters and steaming bowls materialized in the skeletal servants' arms, and they hurried to place the meal on the table.

"Shall we dine?" I said, taking my place at the head of the table, daintily folding a napkin, and tucking it under my collar.

A feast fit to feed a king's court was placed before us. Roast duck, pork, bacon, pheasant, venison, beef, turkey, chicken, potatoes, carrots, all manner of beans, all cooked in different ways. Soups steamed enticingly. Fruit dripped in dew and looked as if plucked straight off the branch or vine. Cakes gleamed in the candlelight, their sugary outsides hiding the sweet jams within.

My guests, used to meals fixed on the go from the cheapest of vendors (or perhaps from a zombie cook, knowing these idiots,) simply stared at the food. I elegantly speared a rib from a nearby platter and began slowly, tactfully, cutting it between my knife and fork. A short time later, I had a perfectly sized bit and slowly placed it in my mouth, chewing in exaggerated motions, closing my eyes in dramatic effect.

There was a sudden clattering as my guests dove for their silverware and food.

For a long while we ate in silence. I savored every bite, hardly conscious of Skully standing protectively to my right. Skully had become something of a superskeleton. He was decked out in full plate mail, shining in a golden hue. An enormous, two-bladed ax rose over his right shoulder. He sported a full-length, royal purple cape. He still grinned as amiably as he did the first night I we met, all those years ago.

Over the years, I had placed enchantment upon enchantment over my skeleton familiar. When I viewed him while seeing magic, I was almost blinded. Spells of extra strength were shadowed under dweomers of armor and protection. Enchantments of speed and agility shared space with spells of intelligence and cunning. Skully could easily take down a Frost Giant and hardly break a sweat, if he _could_ sweat, that is.

Skully glared with empty eye sockets at my guests, as if disgusted at what he saw. I ventured a guess that my familiar could destroy the lot of them in a fair fight, perhaps even one with the odds tipped in their favor.

Finally, Renthol leaned back in his chair and belched. "So, Lord Morath," he said. "Let us hear what this is all about. It is not like us necromancers to gather in such numbers."

"No, it is not," I agreed. "Let me just tell you straight out. I want you as allies in the upcoming war."

"War?" asked one of the necromancers. Grevbeau, I believe his name was. "I have heard of no wars in this area. What do you know that we don't?"

I smiled maliciously at him. He, a wizard that dealt with horrendous zombies and other undead beings, shrank away in horror at my grin. "I plan to take Waterdeep," I said simply.

All four of my guests stood up at once. "Impossible!" they cried simultaneously. Skully unleashed a terrifying roar, fake spittle flying from between yellow fangs; a red glow appeared in the depths of his eye sockets; the table vibrated and the chandeliers shook. I silently applauded him. I had recorded the roar from a deep dragon I had come across in my travels and spelled it onto Skully to make him sound more terrifying. It worked better than I thought it would.

My guests sat down.

"My Lord Morath," quavered Renthol. "It is a fool's dream to take Waterdeep."

"Yes, what about Blackstaff?" piped up another necromancer.

"Mythals!" screeched another.

"Piergeiron!" offered yet another.

I placed my fingertips together in front of my face and glared at them with crimson eyes.

"This is folly, a fool's errand!" shouted Grevbeau, standing again, ignoring Skully's warning growl.

I raised an eyebrow.

"No necromancer, no matter how powerful, is going to take on Blackstaff with his mythals and Piergeiron with his golems, not to mention a city with high walls and able soldiers," huffed Grevbeau. "You are mad, Morath Mentorbane. I defy you."

With that, Grevbeau whirled around, knocking over his chair, and stormed for the doorway. I stood and pointed a solitary finger at his back.

Somehow, he sensed what was coming, and managed to throw up a defensive shield before I finished casting. It did not matter; my spell smashed through his as if it did not exist. I blinding flash of light ensued. When we were done blinking the spots out of our eyes, there was a little pile of dust where Grevbeau had been.

I went over to the necromancer's remains and conjured a broom out of nowhere. "Sorry you had to leave so soon, Grevbeau," I said. "Let me show you out the door." With that, I swept the dust out the threshold, and that was the last anyone saw or heard of Grevbeau the necromancer.

I turned to face my three remaining guests. "Any questions?" I asked pleasantly.

They dropped to their knees in servitude.

**Author's Note: Now Morath has revealed his ultimate plan, and is gathering an army to set it in motion. I also hope that this chapter has given you an idea on how powerful our favorite necromancer has become. Kind of makes you wonder where the kid with the cute dark curls went, huh?**


	8. Chapter 8

_The plot to take Waterdeep was the center of my life. Everything revolved around paying back the traitorous hypocrites a thousand fold. _

_I sent two of my three necromancer allies south to rally more necromancers to my cause. It helped that I spelled them with dweomers of persuasion before their departure._

_Meanwhile, I took Renthol, the greatest, albeit insignificant threat to my command, with me on the greatest trial ever of my power over the undead._

Chapter Eight

Lord of the Dead

"Lord Morath," whispered Renthol as tactfully as possible, "I fail to see the reason for our presence here."

"Renthol, if you had shown such foresight, I would have been obliged to promote you," I said absently. "As it were, you'll just have to make do with hindsight, and you can be grateful that your questions did not arouse my ire."

"Yes, Lord Morath," murmured the necromancer, eyeing Skully warily and edging slightly away.

Renthol, Skully, and I stood at the bottom of an enormous canyon on the far side of the world from Waterdeep, far from Faerûn, and far from everything familiar. Half-dried mud sucked at our boots, and we had to keep a watchful eye out for falling rocks. Before us, carved out of a massive pillar of stone that stretched higher than many of the tallest towers in Faerûn, was a mighty cathedral, complete with ghostly spires of stone. From what I could make out from the hieroglyphics on the walls, it appeared to be an ancient, abandoned temple of Ilmater, god of suffering. Mournful, hollow wails seemed to be emanating endlessly from the depths of the cathedral, probably caused by high winds in the canyon blowing over holes in the stone. It had to have been highly popular with the clerics of Ilmater in its day.

Thousands of fragile, cracked skulls were littered about its base. I glanced at Skully; he seemed unaffected by the multitude of his skeletal cousins.

"What do you suppose resides therein, Lord Morath?" asked Renthol, breaking both the surrounding silence and his own, unspoken vow of silence. "Some foul beast, perhaps? Or maybe an army of our fellow necromancers?"

I hated it when Renthol lumped me into the same category as he.

"Doubtful," I said, resisting the urge to vaporize him; he might yet prove minutely useful. "I would be highly disappointed if there were, as I am after something far more interesting."

Renthol swallowed visibly. "Perhaps it would be better if we returned after dusk, my lord," he quavered. "Our power is stronger in the dark."

"Correct, but I think we would be better served in daylight. Come; we have wasted too much time already."

Skully growled in agreement and hefted his enormous ax. As we approached the ancient cathedral, he marched in front of me protectively, ensuring that any threat against his master would first have to go through him.

I did not envy anyone or anything that would attempt to attack me.

Renthol trailed a good ten feet behind us, twitching at every faraway echo of dripping water. A slight whimper escaped his lips when we crossed the threshold. He quailed under my disapproving glare.

Skully shook his head and snorted derisively. I wondered for a moment how he managed to snort without lungs, but thought it best to ponder it another time.

Pebbles crunched beneath our boots, along with finger bones and split skulls. Renthol nervously conjured two skeletal familiars, their bony figures bursting out of the ground and flanking the frightened necromancer like a royal guard.

"A little less noise, if you please," I murmured.

Before I finished my command, the massive stone doors that had, until now, stood wide open, slammed closed with a resounding crash. All trace of light vanished.

"I do believe that you have awoken our hosts," I said to Renthol, clapping him on the shoulder. "This should make it all the more interesting."

I snapped my fingers twice. Two balls of flashing light appeared from nowhere; I batted them away with the back of my hands, and they bounced about the enormous antechamber like giant, strobe fireflies.

The room, big enough to accommodate a small hamlet, was filled from wall to wall with mighty stone coffins, all exactly the same except for one pure golden one raised on a dais at the far end of the room.

"Lord Morath," stammered Renthol. "I believe I know what this place is. We should not have come here."

"I know what it is, Renthol," I said slowly. "This is a vampire coven, one of the biggest ones I've ever seen. How delightful."

"My lord, we are trapped in a mountainous prison with over a thousand vampires. There is no way to get out of this. Not even you are powerful enough!"

"Raise your voice at me again, Renthol," I whispered murderously, "and you will wish that I had let the nasty vampires get you."

Renthol shrank back behind his skeleton bodyguards.

Upon the dais, the lid of the huge, golden coffin began to slowly, painstakingly, rise.

I surreptitiously cast a spell on Renthol to keep him from fainting. I believe it was a wise investment.

When the lid was halfway open (or closed, depending on your optimism or pessimism) it burst open with a bang and a giant bat flew out, circling the antechamber quickly before landing before us and shifting back to human (ugly human, at that) form.

I could feel Renthol struggling against my anti-fainting enchantment.

"What business brings you to my coven, mortal?" snarled the Vampire Master.

I cleared my throat politely. "My colleague and I were sightseeing in this beautiful canyon of yours when Skully here suddenly had an awful urge to, well, go. Bladder problems, you see. We've been on the list for a replacement for the past five hundred years, but still no word. Anyway, if you could direct us to the nearest privy, we'll soon be on our way." I smiled radiantly at his convoluted features.

The coven leader blinked, digesting the information I had just imparted upon him. Doubtless, he was far more used to exclamations such as, "Run!" or "Spare me!"

"Well, uh, I mean, well," he sputtered, thrown completely off balance. "You can, I mean…what?"

"Let me revise my earlier statement as to clarify my intentions, shall I?" I offered genially.

He nodded, flustered, and motioned for me to continue.

"I've come to enslave you all," I reiterated.

Apparently, the coven leader understood that quite well, and he screeched an odd, bat-like roar at us.

Skully replied with a deep dragon bellow of his own, making the Vampire Master stumble back in amazement. Unfortunately, it also awoke every other of the thousands of vampires in the room. The next few seconds, all other sounds were drowned out by a raucous cacophony of stone coffin lids grating across their surfaces. I stuffed my fingers in my ears. It was worse than when Derir would run his claw-like fingernails across the blackboard: a sound I loathed even more than the color black.

"Well done, Skully," I congratulated. "That was even better than last time. Just remind me to never allow you to do that in the presence of a female deep dragon. What an unfortunate scenario _that_ would be."

Skully nodded his fervent agreement.

We were now surrounded by a grumpy horde of vampires. The creatures were always a tad irritable if awoken before the setting of the sun.

Renthol whimpered. I reinforced the anti-fainting spell, as the original was getting a little frayed around the edges. I emanated disapproval. Renthol was proving more of a liability than any sort of help.

"You should not have come here," said the Vampire Master.

"I have heard that once already," I said, bored. "However, the fact of the matter is: I wish to make war on Waterdeep, and I am going to need your services to pull it off."

"Oh? And have you anything to offer in exchange for said services?" mocked the coven leader.

"Of course I do; I'm not stupid." The Vampire Master perked up a bit, interested. "I offer you your lives, or continued state of undead-ness, in exchange for your aid."

"You go too far!" bellowed the Vampire Master. "You die now!" The mass of vampires surged forward.

"Are you certain that is a good idea?" I inquired, my voice echoing about the antechamber. The horde paused. "You know what I am?" I asked. "I am a necromancer, and an extremely powerful one at that."

"So?" sneered the coven leader.

I blinked. "A necromancer specializes in the raising and domination of the undead," I said slowly, as if to a young child.

The vampire still did not get it. "What are you trying to say?" he asked.

"You creatures, all of you, are undead," I said simply.

The vampire stared at me for a moment, then broke out into hysterical peals of laughter. "Oh, you _must_ be joking," he sneered. "No necromancer, in the history of Abeir-Toril, has _ever_ succeeded in controlling a vampire. It cannot be done. We are the most powerful of the undead, the lords of the underworld."

I crossed my arms and regarded him coolly. He stared back, then glanced away, his confidence wavering.

As if struck by a sudden idea, I reached into one of my many pockets dotting my robes. The Vampire Master tensed, no doubt expecting a spell component of some sort.

I produced a pencil.

The coven leader narrowed his eyes, staring at the device. "What manner of spell is this?" he asked hesitantly. "A wand?"

"Hardly," I said. "It is an inscription utensil I invented. I call it a pencil. I take a form of powdered metal and encase it in a wooden covering. If I lightly press it against parchment, it creates a mark, just like a quill and ink."

The coven leader, unimpressed, if a little put off by the strange tool, shrugged indifferently. "So, you plan to write something?"

"No, I was just wondering as to the accuracy of the rumors that vampires can be slain by a stake through the heart." With that, the pencil floated off my hand and rotated threateningly. As threateningly as a pencil can rotate, that is, which, actually, is not very threatening at all.

The Vampire Master snorted: an action that rather took a bit away from his frightening persona. "That doesn't count."

"Oh?" I inquired. Without warning, the pencil sprang away from above my hand faster than a diving falcon and blasted through the wall of vampires. I recalled the utensil to float above my hand.

Fully fifty vampires keeled over dead, a perfectly round, quarter-inch hole in the left side of their chests. I fastidiously produced a handkerchief and wiped away the gore off the wood; I would, after all, be using that to write with again. "I believe my theory has been proven correct," I said. "Though I may yet be wrong. Care for another testing?"

The Vampire Master was not amused. With a snap of his fingers, the pencil disintegrated. "Hey now!" I protested, "It took me a long time to make that!"

The coven leader wasted no more time with words. He roared his challenge and charged toward me, his monstrous horde following.

Renthol snapped off a couple of spells, vaporizing the nearest of the undead creatures. It was the most useful thing he had done yet, for it gave me time to play my trump card.

From within the folds of my cloak, from an extradimensional pocket, I pulled out a crossbow. It was drow-make. I had never traveled to the Underdark; I had found this design while sneaking about unnoticed in a temple to Deneir. The local cleric never noticed me, but I saw a drow crossbow lying on a table, and I just had to take notes.

The most interesting thing about this particular weapon, however, was not the bow itself, but the darts. Each dart contained a small vial of the extremely hazardous _oil of impact_, a volatile concoction that was apt to explode if jarred too much.

I locked a dart into the bow and fired at the ceiling.

Skully swatted at vampires left and right with his mighty ax.

The dart hit the ceiling, the vial collapsing in on itself.

Renthol cowered behind his skeleton bodyguards while firing off curses and hexes at the advancing creatures.

The stone ceiling exploded in a shower of stone and flame. Both Renthol and I cast shield about ourselves and our familiars to block the falling rock fragments.

Many of the vampires were not so lucky. A good number of them were crushed under the debris.

But, you see, it was still daylight outside.

Vampires screeched in agony before exploding in the murderous light. A riot ensued to find the shady places. The creatures were melting right before our eyes. Few made it out of the light.

The Vampire Master, not as harmed by the light as the others, made it into the shade, but, in his panic, he forgot to guard his mind.

_You are mine, now,_ I thought, exerting all my considerable influence on the creature. He struggled briefly, the full power of his magic battering against mine. He almost broke free, but I was already too deeply nestled in his undead brain. Also, I was just good at controlling others.

"Now, let's be a good boy and tell me who I am before I block off the nasty light," I said standing before the coven leader without fear.

The vampire hesitated for an instant, and then bowed his head.

"Master," he choked.

Inside his mind, he was screaming.

**Author's Note: Ah, the ultimate test of necromancy, in my opinion. What greater way to show mastery over the dead than to enslave a Vampire Master? You can thank my little brother for the pencil weapon. It was his idea.**


	9. Chapter 9

_My home lay not in the Material Plane of Abeir-Toril, but resided instead in the underworld, where a thousand thousand dangers lurked. Here my allies and thralls gathered, all in single mind to destroy the false city of Waterdeep._

_This is where the greatest force of darkness in the history of Faerûn will march from: My home._

Chapter Nine

The Gathering of the Clouds

I wished Derir could have been there to see it.

Row upon row of skeletons stood beside the ranks of zombies, who were split into regiments, each commanded by a vampire, who, in turn, answered to a necromancer, who reported to the vampire master (who could not remember his own name, so I named him Shady, as a personal joke,) who looked up only to me.

I chuckled at the thought of the soldiers of Waterdeep standing their ground against my horde.

Stand their ground? They would be lucky not to wet themselves.

I told all the mindless undead to stay where they were, knowing that a thousand years could pass before they disobeyed my orders, and instructed the necromancers and Shady to meet me in the dining hall.

I noticed Skully was missing. I went to investigate.

I found him in his room, carefully watering a dandelion, of all things. His monstrous ax was slung casually around his shoulder; he was arrayed in full battle gear, his perpetual smile seeming radiant as he went about his task.

Skully did the strangest things sometimes.

I glanced about his designated room. Hundreds of souvenirs of our travels dotted the walls, in no seeming pattern or design. A rock here, a bit of bark there. Old bones of both interesting and mundane creatures littered the floor. A human skull rested by his bed, one that I'm certain he had somehow pilfered from the vampire coven's lair.

The sad remains of the leaf he had used as an umbrella all those years ago took center stage on the wall.

I wondered if Skully had been some sort of artist when he was alive. I hadn't bothered to read the gravestone when I raised him from his coffin. I wish I had, now. When I went back to see Skully's true name, the headstone had eroded away into illegibility.

"Skully, my friend," I greeted.

Skully snapped to attention.

"It is time; let us go inspire the troops."

Skully nodded and gently put down his watering can.

As we navigated the halls of my gloomy home, I overheard two hushed voices whispering in a corner. I enhanced my hearing and eavesdropped.

"I don't understand why I came," said a voice I recognized. It belonged to Lord Basaluke, a necromancer from the outskirts of Calimshan. "What is this Deep Water place everyone speaks of?"

"_Waterdeep_," corrected Renthol's voice, "is the greatest city in the Northwest. It sits by the coast, in a deep inlet that it gets its name from. Most trade in all the surrounding lands go through Waterdeep at one time or another. Scrimshaw from Icewind Dale, fish and merchant trains from Luskan, and all manner of goods from the east. Many merchants out of Calimport often pass through. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it."

"I don't get out much," said Basaluke. "Tell me, why hasn't such a prosperous city fallen to invasion long ago?"

"Immensely powerful magic," said Renthol grimly. "Waterdeep is home to hundreds of wizards, the most powerful of which being Khelban Blackstaff, who lives in Blackstaff tower."

"Blackstaff lives in Waterdeep?" whispered Basaluke. "The one with the mythals?"

"The very same. He has command of powerful elven magic called mythals, magic strong enough to protect entire cities from any sort of invasion. Attacking Waterdeep is tantamount to invading Evereska."

"What madness has Lord Morath to move against such a place?"

"That's not all. Waterdeep is ruled by several Masked Lords, supposedly all commoners who go about their daily business. Hogwash, if you ask me. They're probably all nobles who don't care one way or the other. However, one lord of Waterdeep does not wear a mask. He is an extremely powerful paladin known as Piergeiron, the Open Lord."

"Paladins are mighty adversaries in close combat," said Basaluke, "but our sheer numbers will crush him."

"His strength is not our concern," answered Renthol. "Waterdeep is dotted with enormous statues. However, they are, in fact, golems. Piergeiron can bring them to life and control them. There are dozens; they are among the most powerful golems in the world."

"Oh," said Basaluke. "How can we defeat such enemies?"

"We hope the Mentorbane has a plan, because I sure don't."

"Gentlemen!" I greeted. They both jumped and stared at me guiltily, like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. "I believe we had a meeting in the dining hall?"

"Yes, Lord Morath," they said simultaneously, and rushed away.

"Come, Skully," I said. "Let us allay their fears."

My allies were gathered around the table. Renthol, Basaluke, Skully, Shady, and several dozen other necromancers looked up at me expectantly.

"My brothers," I welcomed. "Look at us. The individuals present in this room represent enough power to make great kingdoms quail. Some of you may be confused. Some of you may not know how you got here. That is probably because my persuasion spells have scrambled your senses for a while. However, I'm certain you will find it in your hearts to forgive me, or at least let it go in light of how powerful I am."

There were some uncomfortable stirrings about the table, but none rose to challenge me. Apparently, Grevbeau's fate had circulated around the storytelling along with tales of Waterdeep's might.

"I am certain you have heard tales of Waterdeep's seeming invulnerability," I said. "And they're probably all true. However, we can bring them down."

Doubt was splayed across almost every face.

"Waterdeep," I said. "So-called City of Splendors. I used to live in Waterdeep, did you know that?"

Every head shook No.

"I did, and I tell you now, it was no city of splendors. Instead, I saw avarice in every street corner, beatings and vile deeds in every alley, and betrayal in every household. Is this the legacy of the "Goodly races?" Is this what the free world symbolizes? Consider, for nearly all our lives, necromancers and vampires have been persecuted for no better reason than our way of life. Vampires must feed on blood to survive. So must tigers. Have the humans, elves, and dwarves hunted tigers nearly to extinction? No. Have they done so to vampires?" I looked at Shady. "You know well the answer to that."

"The goodly races are liars," I continued. "They thrive in their grand cities and hunt us down like animals, though we may have done no harm. I tell you now, I never harmed a hair on a human's head until the day they destroyed my home. I lived by the philosophy that if you treat others with respect, you, in turn, will gain it. I believed this until my master died. Then I saw the error of my ways."

Righteous anger was bursting from my avid listeners.

"Too long have we remained hidden away like frightened badgers," I said. "Too long have we listened to the world tell us the way we live is evil. What evil have we done! Raise the corpses of the dead? They're not using them! In essence, is what we do any viler than animating golems, or controlling elementals? I think not. They are hypocrites. They are afraid."

"That time has come to an end," I whispered. My audience leaned forward to catch my words. "It is time we started fighting back."

Everyone voiced his assent, raising angry fists and shouting death to the hypocrites. I held up a hand. They fell silent.

"Now that we understand each other," I said, "here is how they shall die."

They leaned forward eagerly.

**Author's Note: So it begins. I've been waiting for a long time to get to this stuff. Come on, nice reviewer; don't be afraid!**


	10. Chapter 10

_Everything was in place. My armies awaited only my command to invade the port city. My necromancers were brimming with power, some holding special artifacts I entrusted to them for the duration of the campaign. My vampires had been specially starved of blood as to increase their ravenous hunger to unleash on the unsuspecting citizens of Waterdeep._

_The doom of the North's greatest city hung on the edge of a knife._

_First, though, I had one final visit to make._

Chapter Ten

Hollow Vengeance

I rapped smartly on the door with my knuckles, checking myself one last time to ensure my glamour was working.

To my surprise, the door was answered by a boy, a small young man in his late teens.

"Hello," I greeted pleasantly. "Is your father home?"

"Sorry, no," the boy answered to what he saw as a strikingly handsome young lord. "He and my sister, Arryl, are out in the market. Only my mother and the servants are here."

"Perfect," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.

He quite literally exploded, his head popping off his shoulders like a cork from a bottle of wine. His guts suddenly decided to be free of their fleshly prison and made a quick exit, splattering wetly against the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling. What was left of the shredded corpse collapsed wetly in front of me.

I had not counted on the amount of blood involved, and found myself drenched in the hot, sticky liquid. I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and quickly wiped my face.

"A pity," I muttered, stepping over the body. "They'll never get the stain out of that beautiful carpet."

I absently sent detonating seeker spells to take care of the servants and other staff.

I made my way up the very same stairs I had so impatiently climbed many years ago with a servant named Hasufel (I had to carefully avoid the handrail, as it was now draped with a lovely coating of intestinal fluid.) I torched all the oil paintings on the way up, remembering my past annoyance with them.

Finally I found myself at the master bedroom and let myself in without bothering to knock.

"Who are you?" asked Vivian, bewildered, putting her hand to her mouth when she saw my blood-soaked robes.

I dropped my lordly glamour, showing her who lay beneath.

"Morath," she whispered. "I knew you would come. I've been expecting it all these years."

I saw myself in her mirror. In truth, I looked almost exactly how Derir looked the night he died. My hair was as thin as spidersilk, waving in ghostlike movements. My eyes glowed like rubies. My skin was a sickly gray, wrapped in dreary black robes.

I looked like a monster magically conjured out of a child's storybook.

"Good evening, Vivian," I said, flashing her a smile that was ghastly reminiscent of the radiant one I reserved especially for her. "Perfect night for a walk. I thought I'd catch up with some old friends."

"What have you done with Jarret?" she asked sharply.

"Young man about this high?" I asked, lifting my arm to indicate the height.

She nodded. I gestured to the blood on my robes. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Don't cry," I said reassuringly. "He felt no pain when he died. No, wait…never mind."

A sob escaped her lips. "Why have you done this?" she asked, knuckling her eyes, disturbing the heavy makeup she was wearing. "Why did you kill my son?"

"Why?" I said dangerously. "You have the audacity to ask me why? Did you not hear about what happened to Derir, my master? Did you not care about what happened to the poor boy who never did anything but love you!"

"I was nineteen!" she shrieked. "I was frightened! One minute you were a dream come true, and the next you were a monster that I had grown up hearing needing slaying."

"So that was it? I saved your life from Derir, and you run to daddy and betray me? You killed the only man who ever gave me a chance! Do you know how many times I thought about taking my own life after that day?" I was getting a little hysterical at this point.

"Just listen to you," snarled Vivian. "You barge into my room a big, powerful necromancer, but inside you're a little heartbroken brat. You are not the first, and certainly not the last boy to get his heart broken. Why, just yesterday Jarret, the boy you just killed, came home in a dreadful temper because he had caught some filly he fancied strolling through the park with another boy. Did he go on a killing spree? No, he was flirting with some other pretty face before the end of the day."

"This is different," I said. "Was this filly of his in some way responsible for the death of his father? I think not."

"It's obvious there's no arguing with you," said Vivian. "Maybe you have lived a hundred years learning awful secrets, but you're hardly more mature than poor Jarret down there." She scowled at me. "Are you going to kill me? That's obviously what you're here to do."

"Kill you?" I said. "Oh, no. Death is too good for you. A person of such high standing as Lady Vivian need not go through something as mundane and everyday as death."

Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean, Morath?" she asked.

I acted quickly. My hand darted into her forehead and just as swiftly withdrew. A small, crystalline ball of light glowed in my palm, pulsing gently, as fragile as glass.

_I have in my hand your soul, Vivian, _I thought, since she could hear only my thoughts now. _Death is too good for you. Your soul will not depart to the realm of your patron deity. It will vanish to the Void. It will cease to exist. This is the fate I have chosen especially for you, Vivian. This is what happens to those who break my heart. Any last words, my fair lady?_

_I love you, Morath, _her thoughts answered unexpectedly. _I always have. I am sorry about what happened to your master; I didn't mean for it to happen. I love you still, Morath, because I've seen the person you could have been. I still remember your laugh and your wit. I love you._

My mind reeled. Could she still love me after all those years? Could she love me even after I killed her son? No, she was only trying to save her soul.

_Too late, Vivian,_ I whispered, and squeezed my fist. Her soul shattered into a million pieces, the glowing particles vanishing into the Void. Her empty body collapsed to the floor.

I stood there for many minutes, shell-shocked, unable to believe what I had done.

_My Lord Morath,_ a voice inside my head said urgently, _is everything all right? We await your command._

_Patience, Renthol, _I snapped. _Keep waiting; I am not yet in position._

_We are yours to command, My Lord, _he said meekly.

I did not bother to answer. Instead, I made my way to the walls of Waterdeep, making sure to don my lordly guise before leaving the manor.

Upon the wall, I crossed my arms and took in my surroundings. The sun had set only a couple hours before. Some shops were closing. Other more shady shops were opening.

Foppish young lords went about their business, spending money like water.

Husbands staggered out of taverns, only to be scolded by disapproving wives.

The City Watch seemed half-asleep, some gazing at the beautiful stars when they thought no one was watching.

_Shady, _I thought, _you know what to do. No mistakes._

_Of course, My Lord Morath, _said the vampire oily.

Minutes crawled by. Then, abruptly, "Piergeiron! Piergeiron has been wounded!"

The city erupted into a concerned buzz over the paladin's plight. I smiled at the thought of what my vampire assassins had done.

_Renthol, you and your necromancers know what to do. Draw whatever power you need from me._

I nearly staggered under the sudden loss of power. Renthol and two dozen other necromancers drew power from me as a river draws water from tributaries. I think my glamour may have actually flickered under the strain. However, it was all according to plan.

"Blackstaff! Khelben Arunsun is down!" came the frantic cries of the townsfolk.

I could hardly dare to hope that we had somehow killed the mighty wizard, but perhaps he was preoccupied enough not to notice the havoc I was about to unleash.

Though drained of much of my power, I was still beyond what most necromancers could ever dream of becoming. I reached out with my power to my undead.

_Come._

An army of hundreds of thousands of undead appeared out of nowhere, all charging the walls of Waterdeep, Skully on the front line.

The wall under me shook with the impact of the undead clashing against it.

In moments, the City Watch was at the ramparts, firing arrows into the horde. The skeletons and zombies, however, shrugged off the missiles like little stinging flies and kept pounding at the stone with troll-like strength. The seemingly invulnerable walls began crumbling into powder under the assault.

"Gods be with us," muttered a soldier close to me, firing (and missing) a vampire scaling the wall.

Indeed.

With a glorious swish of my cloak, I spun around and went in search of the famed Waterdhavian Cemetery.

**Author's Note: May the gods be with them. They're going to need it.**


	11. Chapter 11

_If only. Such a simple two words, yet so powerful. If only I had forsaken my necromantic ways. If only Vivian had been a bit more open-minded. If only Derir had lived._

_Our lives are made up of a string of could-have-beens and should-have-beens. It is sad, really, for what truly aches our hearts is the knowledge that, at the time, we _knew_ which choice was the correct one. We _knew_ which path probably led to happiness. Yet, we held onto our sins in a vain hope that perhaps a grasp at the best of both worlds was possible._

_In the end, that's all we're left with: Our sins._

Chapter Eleven

Siege Grievous

The cobblestones beneath my feet shook in response to the pummeling the walls were receiving. It was as if the very foundations of the city were trembling in fear at my assault. Even my carefully placed glamour could not entirely conceal the subtle look of maniacal joy on my face.

After all these years, vengeance was about to be mine.

So why then did the supposedly cold, sweet cup of revenge have the taste of warm, bitter blood? Though I firmly believed I was in the right in razing the cesspool of a city to the ground, I could not erase from my mind the look of final horror in Vivian's eyes before I obliterated her soul.

Justice _had_ been served, had it not?

If the Void served as her justice, then what punishment awaited _my_ transgressions?

I shook the troublesome thoughts out of my mind, as they were counterproductive and would get nothing accomplished. Besides, I was back at my old favorite haunt of the city: The Graveyard.

A high wall surrounded the Waterdhavian Graveyard, built more to keep things _in_ rather than out. Well, _that_ would be the first thing to go.

At my silent command, the massive stone blocks began rearranging themselves to form a space wide enough to accommodate five large men standing abreast. I cast a mass enchantment of animation therein. _Come to me_, I beckoned. _Serve me and return to your slumber. Come to me. You shall drink Sorrow's dregs. You shall kill those whom you once loved._

Thousands of skeletal bodies thrust themselves out of the carefully tended grounds. They all bowed before me, ready to throttle their own descendants at my command.

I beckoned.

They followed.

I instilled two commands in the shallow minds of the undead.

1. Do not kill me.

2. Kill anything else that lives.

They did so impartially. Anyone, man, woman, or child, who crossed their path was torn asunder by merciless, dead claws.

The screams were terrifically horrifying.

Skeletons overturned kiosks and ripped the throats out of horses and mules. Zombies barreled through solid doors and slaughtered those within, ignoring all but the most powerful of blows.

My army did not know pain. My army did not know fear. They killed without restraint, without mercy, without conscience. In that brief time, Chaos, not the fabled Masked Lords, ruled the City of Splendors.

To add to the anarchy, I torched various buildings with balls of fire from my hands, paying special attention to places I had visited in my early years. Let all traces of the old Morath disappear. Let that which wept inside me burn along with my memories, my father's black gold, and my surrogate father's mansion.

This was not so much as an execution of righteousness as it was the slaying of personal demons.

I sprayed a pestilence through a stained glass window, and almost cringed at the cries of the house's inhabitants as their skin rotted off their bones.

I absently took control of their empty bodies and added them to my arsenal. With every loss of Waterdeep's, I gained a new soldier.

Gradually, I noticed that more and more skeletons roamed rampant on the streets. My suspicions were confirmed when I met Skully in a back alley.

"I presume the wall has been breached, then," I said, placing my hands on my hips.

Skully nodded and held up four fingers. The wall had been breached in four places.

"Is Piergeiron dead?" I asked. The sooner the annoying paladin was out of the way the better.

Skully shrugged and hefted his huge, bloody ax.

"Yes, you take care of it personally," I commanded.

Skully threw back his head and unleashed his deep dragon roar. He charged through a stone wall, his shining armor barely getting scratched.

_Shady,_ I thought-spoke. _What is the situation with Blackstaff_?

_The wizard is showing extraordinary resilience to your power. He recovered soon after our assault. Are you quite sure he is human?_

I frowned. He always seemed human to me. Nevertheless…

_I want him dead, Shady. Do you hear me? I want his severed head in my hands before the sun rises._

_If that is your wish, my master. However, he has already vaporized sixty-four of my vampires. Sixty-five. Sixty-six._

_Just kill him! Channel my power if necessary._

_Seventy-one…seventy-two._

I cut him off, soon feeling power being sucked from my core. Shady had better not take more power than needed. That vampire was in desperate need of a dull stake through the heart.

I continued through the alley, thinking to search out suspected masked lords and perform a few high-tech assassinations. However, surreptitious movement caught my eye from the shadows of the alley. I moved closer, suddenly curious.

A little girl burst out from a niche in the alley wall and sprinted down between the houses. Driven by some unknown inner force, I gave pursuit.

The girl darted around corners, panicked beyond reason. I called to her, telling her I meant her no harm. She didn't believe me. I don't blame her.

To her dismay, she found herself at a dead end. Sobbing with hopelessness, the girl, who could not be older than seven, collapsed into a ball, rocking back and forth.

"Be still, girl," I said, not wanting to frighten her. "It is not the likes of you I pursue this night. Only the evil of the full-grown do I destroy. I could take you as my daughter and raise you to remove the evil from your heart. You need not die this day."

She whimpered and leaned away from me. I reached out my hand to grasp hers.

A skeleton warrior leapt out of nowhere, ripping the girl's head from her shoulders before I could recall it.

I howled in fury and disintegrated the mindless warrior with a thought. I moved to the girl's decapitated corpse and knelt beside it, irrationally thinking I could somehow heal it before the damage was too bad.

Of course, I failed.

What crime had this girl committed? Of what fault was she accused? None. She was blameless, innocent. And I had caused her death. Hers and so many others.

The once-fair head tumbled out of my nerveless fingers. I wandered the alleyways in a daze, not heeding the screams of the dying, ignoring the clash of steel against steel, disregarding the crumbling of towering structures.

Horror whirled around me in a hellish vision of mayhem.

A man stood before his family with a cudgel, swatting away at marauding skeletons. His wife screamed when they ripped him apart. His children wailed when my soldiers set upon them.

I did nothing to stop it. What was wrong with me? Did I want these hypocrites eliminated or not?

Little rivers of blood flowed in the spaces between the brick streets. Footing was treacherous, as squishy body parts littered the path.

Was this, then, my legacy? This is what I wanted, wasn't it?

_Wasn't it_?

Was this the price of revenge, then? The suffering of children. The dying cries of innocents? Innocents? Innocence. I was slaughtering innocence.

_Lord Morath, I'm afraid your power is insufficient._

I blanched. _What! Shady, talk to me._

_Blackstaff has broken out of our snare. My people are dying by the hundreds. Your assistance is required._

_I'm on my way,_ I snapped.

_Please hurry. I don't think we—_

_Shady? Shady, are you there?_

I growled in frustration. Were my servants so incompetent? Shaking my head in an attempt to clear the doubts, I stormed toward Blakstaff's abode.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that stopped me cold.

Skully brought both arms above his head and sent his ax spinning end over end into the marble face of a golem statue. The decapitated figure crashed to the ground, sending clouds of dust into the air.

Three more golems surrounded Skully; each three times his height. Bereft of his ax, Skully reached into an extradimensional pocket I had supplied him with, pulling out an enormous warhammer.

Bellowing a defiant deep dragon roar, Skully whirled his hammer around, crushing the kneecaps of two of the walking monuments.

The third reached down to mash my familiar. Skully leapt higher than physically possible, scrambling up the stone arm to alight on the golem's shoulder. With another roar, he brought his hammer down, bashing the golem's head in.

With a moan like some monstrous beast, the golem tumbled into the cobblestones, sending spider web cracks up and down the street.

I silently cheered Skully's victory, and turned to deal with Blackstaff. The moment I had turned my back, Piergeiron himself rode around the corner, a hundred of his best men at his back.

Skully turned just in time to catch Piergeiron's powerfully enchanted sword directly in the face.

I screamed as I felt my familiar's connection severed.

**Author's Note: It broke my heart to write that final scene. Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. I'll try to do better next chapter.**


	12. Chapter 12

_It's quite hysterical, actually, when I think about it. To you, the reader of this morbid memoir, the humor may be lost; however, I find it quite amusing, in a sickening sort of way. In the course of several ill-gotten centuries of semi-life, I have done my utmost to distance myself from any sort of close, friendly relationships. To the casual observer, I succeeded rather well, with the exception of one individual. Throughout all my travels, by my side in all my perils, forever providing odd decorations for my dingy dungeons, Skully was my constant companion._

_One could argue that Skully did not officially qualify as a friend, as he was forcibly ripped from the afterlife and his body succumbed to my commands. No, one would say that Skully was my slave, pure and simple._

_This was simply not the case._

_Perhaps it is only wishful thinking on my part, but I believe that a bond greater than one of master/servant had formed between us, a kinship of sorts._

_Skully hunted for me and cooked for me (not good cooking, but one must take what one can get.) Skully cheerfully removed the cobwebs I had so painstakingly placed on all the chandeliers to make our mansion look more menacing. Skully took care of affairs that had simply slipped my mind._

_Most importantly, perhaps, was that Skully always seemed to sense when I had reached the bottommost depths of my depression. On these frequent occasions, he would enter my room without permission and sit in a corner and look balefully upon my sadness. He would do this for hours, merely providing a friendly presence, an action that helped more than I had ever been able to fully admit until now._

_And now he was gone. My last friend in the world, the one I didn't even realize I had. Waterdeep was going to pay._

_Oh yes, there will be blood._

**Chapter Twelve**

_Loss_

I stared, slack jawed as Skully's skull bounced down the cobblestones to rest before my booted feet. Before my eyes, the enchantments I had placed upon my familiar dissipated, and the bones crumbled into a fine, powdery dust.

Piergeiron reared his horse haughtily, leveling his sword, the vile weapon that had destroyed Skully, at my head with nauseating smugness. "Necromancer!" he bellowed from inside his helmet, "you will call off your forces at once and surrender immediately. Do it or die!"

I barely heard it. My eyes were fixed on the quickly scattering dust that had once been my only friend. My ears were filled with a strange buzzing. My mouth was filled with a sharp, coppery taste; I had bitten my lip so hard that it was bleeding.

"_Necromancer_!" barked the insufferable paladin sharply, "last warning!"

My red eyes finally rose to meet his lordly ones. I suddenly wished for a knife; I wanted this to be personal. I wanted to bathe my hands in his bright lifeblood.

I vaguely remembered Piergeiron giving some sort of command, followed by the buzz of two dozen arrows being released.

I exploded into action. With a minimal drainage of power, the darts folded in on themselves into nothingness. I swept my hand in front of me in a tight arc with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, issuing forth a furious line of fire onto their front lines. The flames went out quickly, but not before hitting a good score of them, transforming their elegant suits of armor into very effective ovens. I actually heard fat pop and crackle as the courageous soldiers within were quite literally roasted.

I had hoped that I had caught Piergeiron in my flames, but was disappointed. A bright blue shield flared in a fierce orb around the paladin, and it was only then that I noticed the five very powerful mages standing behind the Open Lord, all focusing their energies into protecting themselves and their master.

Well, that simply wouldn't do.

Before I could turn my full attention to my fellow wizards, I was rather rudely interrupted by yet _another _trio of statue/golems, all waving massive stone weapons and seeming quite anxious to eviscerate me with them.

Having little desire to become a Necromancer Fillet, I naturally set to the arduous task of destroying these formidable foes.

I settled into a quick, super concentrated form of meditation, focusing all my power into a tight nimbus around my person. The air around me crackled with energy, and it was difficult to draw breath.

The first golem to reach me released a roar of fury as it swung down with a mighty claymore, which promptly shattered against the highly condensed ball of energy surrounding me. I politely responded with a wad of compressed air, which slammed into the unfortunate creation's chest with the force of a thousand trebuchet shots.

The other two golems, undoubtedly acting under Piergeiron's direct control, circled me warily, poking and prodding with massive spears and halberds at possible weak spots.

The paladin, foolishly thinking that I may have temporarily forgotten about him and his men, launched an attack on my flank.

Envisioning Skully's morbid, everlasting grin, I threw my palms out wide to either side of me and knelt down to the cracked pavement, thumping my knee painfully on the road. The ground beneath me abruptly thundered and lurched like an earthquake. Statues (real ones) crumbled to the ground. Buildings and structures within a mile radius were shaken to their foundations, and they imploded with deafening crashes and toppled to the ground, shaking the entire city. All the soldiers, including Piergeiron, were thrown down, unable to keep balance. They were immediately showered with debris from the fallen towers and fiery hail from my magic. Those who were still in command of their motor functions raised their shields above their heads in dismay, some only to be crushed under a particularly large chunk of wardrobe or something like that.

When I tired of raining fire and ice down upon them, I decided to get more creative. Why not? I was indescribably angry about Skully's "death." These soldiers, along with all of Waterdeep, deserved to burn, innocents or no innocents. I splattered them with acidic goo, melting the flesh off their bones. I commanded the blood to leave their bodies by any means necessary, which it did. It looked rather like those artistic fountains where the water spews out of a statue's mouth, except considerably more macabre.

I hurled bolts of lightning into their midst, stopping their hearts without a thought. Just when I was running out of men to kill, more would run around the corner, weapons drawn and leveled.

Fine by me.

Have you forgotten about the golems? I didn't. The second one was crushed underneath a falling building; it didn't get up. I nonchalantly transformed the third one into a pillar of salt. The citizens of Waterdeep will not be without seasoning for their meals for quite some time, I think.

I caused some soldiers' armor to shrink considerably, mashing their innards into paste. I sprayed pestilence into the faces of others, making their bowels loosen and guts wrench themselves to pieces.

I killed a hundred different ways, some humane, some…not.

I was having the time of my life.

Finally, with the bodies of close to a thousand brave men strewn about me, all that remained was the cowardly paladin and his wizard lackeys.

I gathered my power. They gathered theirs. I knew who was going to win this battle of the Art, and, judging by the grim set of their faces, they knew it too.

I reared back and let loose an old-fashioned fireball. A big one. I mean, this was a real humdinger. After it left my fingers, I could practically see the six people getting incinerated.

My beautiful fireball vanished.

My jaw dropped in shock.

"I believe that will do, necromancer," said a man appearing out of nowhere, stroking his long, black beard disapprovingly. In his hand he carried an ominous black staff. The man, obviously seeing my eyes flicker to the object, chuckled and said, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Khelben, commonly known as Blackstaff, and this is my city you are destroying."

Knowing I was in trouble, I immediately unleashed a maelstrom of destruction, releasing enough power to decimate a small forest. Bolts of lightning, waves of fire, freezing air, poisonous gas, and a hundred other incarnations of death raced at the archmage and paladin, only to be deflected by a curious silver shield surrounding the final defenders of Waterdeep.

"As I said, Morath Mentorbane," whispered Blackstaff pityingly, "_that will do._"

"What are you!" I shouted, feeling my victory slipping through my cold fingers. "You are no man! What false god do you serve?"

Blackstaff only shook his head. "I have heard about you, Mentorbane," he said sadly. "You never did understand that there were other people out there who felt just as much pain as you have. You could have been a fine wizard, a very fine wizard. Such potential…It is enough to make me weep for the loss."

"Shut up," I snarled. I might have lost, but I would not endure a lecture on morality. "You may have caught me, but you cannot justify all the suffering you have advocated, Blackstaff. You cannot forever escape judgment for what has happened under your very nose. At least it shall be said that I tried."

He looked at me as if I had just babbled something about raindrops plotting to vanquish a colony of fish by drowning them. "What twisted dreams have you dreamed, and what vile books have you read to accept such an ideology as a purifying fire?"

My lips curled into a sneer, and I resolved to kill the hypocrite before I was taken. I raised my hand to cast a massive, final spell at the archmage, whispering a prayer under my breath to a god that I had stopped believing in centuries ago.

I never got close. It turns out that the old fart is much faster than he looks. Silver fire spewed from his fingers, and my world dissipated into a silver whirlpool of pain.

And then I blacked out.

**Author's Note: Yes, I know it's been a very long time between chapters; I apologize. To those of you who noticed, yes I did quote Saw II. I LOVE the Saw movies! One more chapter to go…Stay tuned for the final installment of the Legend of Morath Mentorbane and the last words in his Diary of a Necromancer.**


	13. Chapter 13

_I sit here in my cell, enjoying no sound except the scritching of my quill on parchment. The depth of my own folly has only just hit me. Now, after a century of damning experimentation and plotting, I finally realize my mistake. Only by the mercy of a kindly guard do I have writing material to record my experiences in hope that someday I may be understood, and maybe even pitied, for I am pitiful. I blame these people for neither my imprisonment nor for my inevitable burning come dawn. But I do criticize them for their lack of perception. To them, I am a monster, a freak of nature, or rather, of magic. They perceive me an animal, hungering only for power and death._

_They are wrong._

_My name is Morath: necromancer, dark lord, and human. That was my story…_

**Chapter Thirteen**

_Futile Redemption_

_Drops of filthy water drip from the ceiling. Rats scurry across cracked stone floors. The smell of death is rank in the stagnate air._

_It feels almost like home._

_The tiny candle emits barely enough light to write by. It is a good thing my eyes are accustomed to darkness._

_It took the council of the Masked Lords fully twenty seconds to condemn me to death. Khelben did nothing to stop them, not that he should have. It's all right, really. Death isn't so bad. If anyone alive knows, it's me. They do what they feel they must._

_I have been dead since the day Derir died anyway. The last remnants of my soul were ripped away when my enchantments over Skully were broken._

_Yes, there are fates worse than death. I have experienced many of them. Perhaps, finally, I shall be at rest when the sun rises._

_One can always hope._

_Perhaps you are confused. One minute I am filled with an unholy rage, raining down death and destruction on any and all who dare oppose me. The next I am as a docile, whipped cur._

_The thing is, now, faced with eminent death, the sweet, endless omega, I feel lifted of all burdens. My anger for the loss of Skully has abated. I am left with only a hollowness in my soul. I have no one to blame. Who could I blame? Society? People who wish to live? I blinded myself with anger. I, who would point my finger at a hapless infant, am now taking responsibility for my actions._

_It was I who drove my Vivian, my love away. I drove her away over ten years before I met her when I entered into an apprenticeship with a necromancer. It was I who caused my master's death. It was I who allowed the poor, poor girl on the streets of Waterdeep to die years before her time._

_My life is nothing but a long, bloody line traced by my finger, the finger that always pointed at another, that would find me only faultless. It would take the death of my last friend in Toril to realize who was to blame, who needed to make amends._

_What more is there to say? I might attempt to break out of this prison and undo all the wrongs I have committed, but wizards and mages from five hundred miles around have congregated upon this city to cast enchantments against my escape. Besides, though it is selfish of me, I am tired. I wish to die. I wish to rest. Let the gods judge me how they will; I no longer have the strength to raise my head and fist in rebellion._

_Let it be known, however, that I loved Vivian Hyburn, that I loved her so much that I would destroy her. To those of you that could not make sense of that statement, I envy you._

_I am out of ink, and these last words are written in my blood._

_As a final thought, let it also be known that, in the gods' infinite sense of irony, the only thing in my legacy that remains good and beautiful, the only thing I leave behind worth cherishing: A solitary dandelion growing in the underworld, in the room of a skeleton who will never know how much I loved it._

_**Death is merely the next great adventure**_

**Author's Note: There you have it: The Legend of Morath Mentorbane and his Diary of a Necromancer. I hope you enjoyed it, and I would like to thank each and every one of you who stuck with me and read every chapter, most notably Iceheart Firesoul and Lola Witherbottoms, without whom I may have not had the fortitude to complete it.**

**1. Lola: yes I did quote Peter Pan.**

**2. Iceheart: Morath and Skully did indeed reunite, and are currently having tea together in the afterlife as we speak.**

**Salaam alaikum, readers, and thanks for reading.**

**--Drow Elf**


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